


Angel, Won’t You Spread Your Wings?

by darkrose921



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Hate Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12763719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrose921/pseuds/darkrose921
Summary: Dr. Angela Ziegler absolutely loathes her counterpart, Moira O'Deorain. She's cold, callous. But Angela can't stop thinking about her.





	Angel, Won’t You Spread Your Wings?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 6 am,,, don't judge. Also I'm terrible because I should be updating my older works uwu

An artificial blue haze pours through the doctor’s weary eyes; they flutter mercilessly as the hold she has on her holopad threatens to slip past trembling hands. Dr. Ziegler growls to herself, to her seemingly weak mind as sleep deprivation finally catches up with her. She had been neck-deep with ground breaking, nano technological research that demanded the majority of her time.

Angela Zielgler was a capable woman, she knew her limits and functioned accordingly. She would never overwork herself, no, for fear of compromising the importance of her studies. A clear mind was the only path that would lead to success. Yet here she was, struggling to stay conscious, hair pasted to the sides of her face by a sheet of freshly surfaced sweat. She would have never gotten to this pathetic demise had it not been for... _her_.

Competition arose behind the closeted halls of Overwatch, and the appointed competitor was absolutely viscous. Moira O’Deorain was a conniving individual and Angela knew there was something off about her from the moment they were acquainted. Her motives seemed questionable and her ethics just the same. There was a lingering but unspoken animosity between the two women, so when Moira decided to take up her own research, inspired spitefully by Angela’s own, there was panic. This research in particular was so volatile, and could easily be tarnished and corrupted by the wrong hands.

 _Resurrection_.

Yes, to revive the fallen, to bring life back to a lost soul. The doctor had miraculously discovered a way to achieve the impossible. Controversial it may have seemed to outsiders, however Dr. Ziegler’s intentions were nothing if not pure. Solely for the revival of deceased comrades and soldiers on the battle field. She may have been playing God, yet she couldn’t help but see it fit. An angel she was called by her friends, an angel of mercy.

However there was a devil prowling alongside the angel, with primly cut orange mane and talons that could slice through skin. Moira was enthralled with the notion of reanimating the dead, but she did not believe that should be the extent of it. And so Moira O’Deorain decided to extend beyond Angela’s research, she fiddled with death and played with it as if it were a toy. Experiment after experiment, testing on livestock and other animals alike, she showed no mercy in her endeavors. They were unorthodox and immoral. Angela hated her way of strict methodical thinking. Moira perceived the world with cold, unforgiving approaches, and she couldn’t be more infuriating. She was as smug as she was cunning, the way that woman carried herself left Angela feeling defenselessly inferior. She didn’t like it one bit.

And because of Moira’s persistent participation in Angela’s research, she felt the urgent need to upstage her. To put her in her place, and to most definitely discontinue whatever nefarious plans she had curated within that diabolical mind of hers.

Angela huffs at the thought of her, and holds her datapad a bit too rough before letting it fall and crash loudly beside her propped elbow. She forces her hand to slither to the cup a mere foot away from her work. She gulps down the remaining cold coffee in false hopes the caffeine would take its course over her drained body. But she knows it won’t, as a trained medical professional she knows the amount of caffeine she had already consumed had lulled any further effectiveness. And her head throbs from it all, the lack of sleep, the frustration, definitely all of the coffee. But most importantly the source of it all, whose name she refuses to allow passage to her thoughts. Futile the effort was, and inevitable more so. Moira enraptured her thoughts almost always.

All of her energy most days, as of recent, went into her detestation for that devil of a woman. How dare she claim ownership of her research, her time and long, endless devotion, and how dare she claim ownership of all her waking hours.

Angela wants to cry, but she also wants to scream. Never in her workplace had she encountered someone so worthy of the word hate. And every other negative word in the English language. German too.

And the worst of it all was Moira’s unabashed satisfaction in Angela’s frustrations. Countless times had Moira teased her and pushed all of the doctor’s buttons. Her wicked grin she’d cast every time Angela hid her face in aggravation, and her provoking winks that would plaster a feverish blush on the flustered doctor’s face. Playful banter Moira would call it, but all it was was ill-mannered and childish antics.

Angela could hear Moira’s gruff voice in her head calling her, mocking her. Using those patronizing pet names she knew Angela hated.

“Now now, no need for tears, darling.”

Angela didn’t even realize she was crying, and she curses at herself for being this silly. She shakes her head, chuckling inwardly at her pathetic display of frailty.

She looks around, she needs an anchor back to reality, something to pull her out of the emotional daze she’s trapped in. And in the ill-lighted office space, metallic, not far away, shines brightly in her direction. A knowing glance was thrown in reciprocation, for Angela knew just what the item of her attention was. She hesitates, a brief flicker of practicality before disregarding it completely and reaching for the flask.

The doctor tentatively raises it to her lips, her thumb idly plays with the cap. The tapping sound it makes every time it falls back shut irritates Angela enough to force it open. The thick scent of whiskey fills Angela’s senses, it’s vile and nauseating. But her mouth waters for it and she can’t resist. Her thoughts are too loud, too obnoxious. Her body unduly over-stimulated and on the verge of giving out.

She shuts her eyes. Tears trapping beneath shuttering lids, lashes dampened, and she downs the harsh liquid. It burns all the way down her throat and it hurts. But she does it again, and again, and again. Until her head feels weightless and the tears stop pouring. She’s not drunk, the doctor’s history with alcohol was not kind; she was experienced and unfortunately a few shots wouldn’t do the trick. She was thankful though, in that moment. It meant she could distract herself with the unforgiving sting the drink left in her esophagus.

But It wasn’t enough. It’s made it worse. She’s hallucinating. Her mind torments her with delusions, apparitions. A mirage surely is what it was. At the door of her office, now open, looms a tall silhouette. Neck craned to lean against the frame, hands in the pockets of a discernible lab coat. Lean legs crossed at the ankles and it stares at her, motionless. Angela’s ears ring. Her face feels warm and she wants to call out to the shadow, but she knows it’s not real. But the more she stares at it, the more its features become noticeable and familiar. She blinks rapidly and squints into the dimly lit space.

It’s her. It’s her and Angela laughs out loud. It sounds manic.

“Even when I try to drink away all thoughts of you from my mind, you still manage to claw your way back in.”

It’s silent, the only noise Dr. Ziegler can hear is the blood pulsating heavily passed her ears. But before she gets too distracted the figure replies.

“And here I thought you hated me,” the voice entices.

It’s Moira’s voice, her accent in all its Irish glory is unmistakable. The tone of it however annoys Angela.

“Oh, I do,” the doctor mumbles, her hand catches the bridge of her nose and she pinches hard. “I hate you so much.”

The taller woman sucks in a breath. “Ouch. Way to soften the blow, Doctor.”

That amuses Angela and she stifles a laugh.

“Well, I’d never say that to you in person. You’re far too intimidating for me.”

Moira’s brow arches. “What are you on about?”

Angela shakes her head and peers through the tiny opening of the flask, there isn’t much left she figures. She doesn’t verbally respond.

“Oh, you’ve been drinking,” Moira observes, stepping out of the doorway.

“Yes,” Angela sighs. “And far too much apparently, I’m hallucinating.”

There’s a brief pause before any of them speak.

“Oh sweet darling,” Moira coos as she makes her way over.

“I can assure you I’m 100 percent real and in the flesh.”

For a moment Angela just stares blankly, then she nods, eyes and brows twitching upwards.

“Then perhaps I’ve not drank enough. Surely it will quell the headache you’re about to give me.”

The doctor goes to take another sip of whiskey but as quickly as it was raised, it’s swiped from her hand. Angela follows the loss of occupancy in her grasp and its Moira’s long fingers that hold her flask now. The doctor reacts abruptly and lunges after it.

“What are you—“

“You’ve had enough Doctor Ziegler, don’t you think?” Moira tuts and unceremoniously waves it away from her.

The swish is barely audible proving Moira’s hypothesis of just how much Angela’s had to drink. The doctor grunts as she reaches over her desk, where Moira stands smugly. Angela’s hip bones dig brutally into the hard, unyielding surface. But she doesn’t care, the pain isn’t even comparable to her exasperation levels. As she’s stretching her arm out, Moira’s pressing against her chest with one pointy finger.

“Who are you t-to dictate what I can and can’t do? _Scheisse_ , just...” Angela trails off as the single digit becomes a full hand and begins to apply pressure.

She resists it.

“You deem it safe, Miss Angela, to be in the company of your enemy in a disheveled state of mind?” Moira questions but it’s not genuine, she’s mocking and Angela’s aware of this.

Moira’s mouth curls, her canines visible in the most predatory way.

“I wasn’t aware you were so _reckless_.”

Angela’s anger finds a way to simmer down when she questions Moira’s motives. Her tone of voice is no longer berating, but something else. Angela let’s the insistent hand guide her back down to her chair as she muses. She clutches the arm rests as she lowers herself tentatively, eyes fixated on the woman before her. Angela twists her lips and suddenly feels self-conscious, the inferiority she always managed to succumb to in Moira’s presence began to surface.

Moira leers, her head literally in the clouds with the way she towers over Angela and the desk. She uses this power to further torture Angela, Moira is aware it adds to her blunt confidence. She grins a crooked grin, the radiating light from the surrounding technology dance around her form. Her bright colored hair is highlighted picturesquely in cool contrast with the shadows. The suit and tie beneath her lab coat are drowned out in darkness, but the white of her coat almost glimmers.

Angela’s head turns away, unable to meet the woman’s puncturing glare any longer. She chews at her lip aggressively.

“I don’t—“ she’s cut off by her own disorderly thoughts.

Her face twitches and she’s curving her neck in a way that portrays her uncertainty.

“Why are you here, Moira?” She truthfully asks.

Her attention is back on the Irish woman, though she’s not making direct eye contact and she wonders if Moira can notice. She doesn’t let Moira answer.

“To torture me some more? Maybe get your filthy hands on more of my work, directly from the source?”

Moira doesn’t move, her eyes are scrutinizing and roaming freely over Angela’s being.

“Is that why you’re throwing a tantrum? You don’t like it when your work is _perfected_ , hm?”

Angela is offended and she scoffs defensively.

“ _Perfecting_? What you do Moira, anything you touch, is quite far from perfect.”

A scornful look is what Angela offers, before she continues her rant.

“You essentially ruin everything you come in contact with. You’ve...”

Moira listens, she’s curious and waits for the rest of the doctor’s words.

“...you’ve ruined me.”

Angela doesn’t know what she means when she says that. Moira has made these past few months a living hell for the doctor, but Angela isn’t sure if all of her counterparts’ attentions are...unwanted. And when she admits this to herself, Dr. Ziegler’s heart quickens and her stomach plunges.

Maybe some part of her, some sick, twisted part of her, revels in Moira’s plaguing behavior. She can’t contemplate long for Moira’s movements catch her awareness. She circles around the desk and Angela tenses. Whatever footwear she’s wearing is claiming the silence in the room as Moira makes her way behind the doctor’s chair.

The air in the room seems nonexistent and Angela can’t get enough oxygen to her lungs. She’s not acting right, not thinking clearly. But she feels a faint excitement from the situation, maybe it’s the alcohol speaking.

When she swallows hard her throat still stings and the taste of a certain smoky substance still resides on her tongue. She licks her cracked lips.

She wants to face Moira but she doesn’t have the courage, so she sits there. Anxious and expectant all at the same time.

A throaty chuckle tears through Angela’s sense of sound, and she knows Moira’s eyes, one of ochre, one of sapphire, are boring through her skull.

“But you can’t get enough, can you?” And Moira does what Angela secretly wanted.

She takes hold of the chair and spins it so that the doctor is now facing her. Moira is tall, generously exceeding the doctor’s own height by more than a few inches. So from a seated position she’s towering.

Moira’s leaning down in one swift motion, hands bearing on each side of the chair’s arm rests. Angela is trapped by her presence, by her suffocating scent. She breathes it in, and it’s almost like it’s addictive. It’s fine cologne, not overtly feminine but not strictly masculine either. Some french perfume maybe, but Angela is trying too hard to capture it. _She’s_ _right, the doctor can’t get enough._

“To bring up your previous query, I think you know exactly why I’m here.”

She’s leaning in close but not close enough to touch. And Angela isn’t sure if she’s grateful or disappointed. She feels vulnerable from the accusation, but maybe it’s the truth. Her mind is a messy blur however, so it’s difficult to think. Thankfully, she doesn’t need to. Moira does it for her.

“You’ve led me here, Angela. You’ve beckoned for me ever since day one. It was only a matter of time before I delivered.”

Moira’s words are harsh and Angela considers them. It’s the truth probably but it angers the doctor. She feels assertive.

“But you are the worst. You infuriate me beyond words.”

Her eyes flicker to Moira’s lips. She hates her, she hates Moira O'Deorain. But... God, she _wants_ her.

“I drive you crazy in more ways than one, _darling_.”

There’s that maddening domineering tone in her voice, like she could never spew fabrications. Like every word, every sentence, is irrefutable fact. But now, what would have sent a throb to her head, sends a throb beneath her panties instead.

“I must admit though,” Moira breathed. “I find your innocence, _your purity_ , intoxicating.”

“Where I find sweet morality, I crave to corrupt.”

She lifts a long, elegant finger to mold under Angela’s chin. Her voice is low and gravely, it sends chills along the doctor’s warm skin.

“Ah, you are correct. Perhaps my desire is to ruin you.”

Her claw digs into the plump flesh of Angela’s lower lip. She’s refraining.

“Will you grant me permission?”

The question leaves Angela speechless. Now would be the time to retreat from whatever disaster Moira belongs to. She wasn’t sleepy anymore Angela deduced, for any remaining morsel of grogginess was replaced with a burning lust. And so that’s what keeps her body glued to the chair, and that’s what coaxes her lips to press messily against Moira’s own.

All of her emotion, negative and positive alike is bleeding through the kiss. It’s fire and aggressive, it’s expressive. Moira meets her enthusiasm with a probing tongue, and as soon as their tongues meet Angela is lost. There’s friction and teeth and sucking. Its a kiss with desperation, with confusion and regret. But it’s not stopping, Angela doesn’t want it to, she craves more and more of Moira’s mouth.

She’s moaning into the kiss now, her logical thoughts were out the window and replaced with primal urges. Angela’s neck aches with the way it’s craned upward to meet Moira at their angle. But she doesn’t care because soon Moira’s hauling her up, kicking the swiveling chair away, and forcing Angela to the desk.

“Taking a chance with the devil, are we?” She plays the part and delivers a wicked grin. “Well, I’m flattered.”

That makes Angela want to slap her, to pull her hair and make her yelp. But Moira is too quick, and dives into the crook of Angela’s neck. She sucks and licks and bites. She’s slurping on her skin and the noises it produces bounces off the walls of the office. It makes Angela drip heat between her legs, and it forces a groan passed her lips. One she found impossible to restrain, the alcohol in her veins made any embarrassment fade away.

She sat up atop the desk fully now, legs wrapped around Moira’s inviting waist. Angela’s arms are hugging the woman’s shoulders and she’s clawing at the white cotton of her coat. She’s needy and wanton and can’t help but rub herself against Moira’s lower half. But something makes her gasp away from Moira’s lavishing at her neck.

What she felt was a bulge underneath Moira’s black, fitted slacks. Angela makes sure she wasn’t imagining it when she takes a hand to cup it. Her mouth says it all.

“You...did you plan this?”

Moira’s complacency is shown through her eyes, a twist of her lips and she’s chuckling again.

“You are so easy to decipher, Doctor. I knew how desperate you were for me, how needy. Putty in my hands.”

Angela stares back keenly, she’s challenging her.

“And had I refused? You sure would’ve looked silly with a strap on wedged between your legs, unexploited.”

“I’m fairly confident in my abilities,” Moira replies with no shame.

And Angela plays with the idea of being taken by her in such a manner. A sudden zipping noise is what forces her attention back to reality, and Angela looks for the source. She peers downward to see what Moira was doing and when she realizes, Angela averts her gaze back up. She wants it.

“Patience was never my strong suit,” Moira admits.

The taller woman makes quick work of Angela’s buttoned blouse. How she managed such a rapid pace with ridiculous 5-inch nails bemuses the doctor. Angela’s hit by the crisp air as her chest is exposed. But what she soon remembers forces a pink stain on her cheeks. The type of bra she had picked out today just so happened to be a black lace one. She’s mortified.

“Seems like I wasn’t the only one who came prepared tonight,” Moira teases but she doesn’t appreciate the sight any less.

Angela goes to defend herself but Moira covers her mouth with her hand.

“But I approve,” she says. “Utterly marvelous.”

The praise makes Angela swell up with pride, but she doesn’t verbalize it. Moira places fervent kisses on her chest before roughly tugging down the garment hugging her breasts.

“Have I ever told you what a pretty thing I think you are?”

It wasn’t a question demanding an answer, this was made clear when Moira took a hardened nipple into her eager mouth. Moira made a noise and it took Angela off guard, the vibration added to the sensations and she panted heavily. When Moira lifted her head she kissed Angela’s lips fleetingly.

“I disproved your earlier statement, Angela,” Moira spoke just above a whisper.

“You said nothing I touch is perfect, I’m inclined to disagree.”

Angela’s expression was indiscernible, it was a moment of awkward sincerity and the women stared at each other. But the tenderness was briskly forgotten of as Moira sweeps Angela off of the desk and turns her, face down, against the frigid table. Her breasts meet the cold surface and it feels like ice against her sensitive skin. But it feels heavenly. She braces her hands to lay flat above her, and she feels Moira ride up her skirt all the way past her hips. She was deliciously exposed under the watchful eye of the woman she despised, but that fact only adds to the dampness in her underwear. Moira doesn’t procrastinate because her panties were already halfway down her legs, dropping to pool at her ankles.

“My my, what gorgeous petals you have, _mo bhláth_.”

Moira’s thumb brushes over her slit and she notices the wetness there.

“You’re drenched.”

Angela’s ache between her legs grows uncomfortable to the point of insanity. She’s desperate, oh so desperate.

“P-please...” Angela mutters a fraction too quiet.

“What was that? Speak up, will you?”

There’s amusement in her words Angela can hear, and she curses at Moira.

“What are you waiting for?” Angela almost yells.

“Your dignity to crumble. Beg for it, sweetheart.”

Angela's hands clench to fists, she’s on fucking fire, lust completely devouring her; she’s incredibly vexed with Moira’s need for control and power even when she’s splayed our for her wordlessly begging to be touched. But of course that wasn’t enough, she needed to break Angela until she was nothing but a shell.

“I won’t give you that satisfaction,” she hisses through clenched teeth.

“Oh?” Moira removes her finger. “Are you sure about that?”

The loss of stimulation, how little it may have been, forces a whine from the indigent doctor.

“You said it yourself Angela, how pitiful would it be where if I left here tonight without properly utilizing this.”

She presses the tip of the strap on near Angela’s gaping entrance. It was so ready to be filled, so tempting on Moira’s part, but she could refrain until she heard what she desired.

Never in her life had Angela wanted to murder someone more than she did in those moments. Moira would take no pity and Angela was perfectly aware. She would have refused her request but her cunt ached, too much to bear any more empty seconds.

“Fuck me,” she pants. “Fuck me hard, _you bitch_ ,” Angela’s voice cracks and she exhales severely.

She throws a glance behind her, her eyes blurry with tears and her forehead contorts with creases.

Moira sneers, “My pleasure.”

Moira’s cock plunges deep and brutal, without warning. She’s gripping the roundness of Angela’s ass, tight and hard enough to leave bruises. Especially with the way her talons pierce her flesh. It stings, it’s painful, the combination of being penetrated so aggressively and held so carelessly. But being used in such a way, being taken so selfishly makes her clit throb and her core pulse. The knowledge that it’s Moira triggering both her pain and pleasure makes her moan.

“ _Moira_...” she manages between thrusts.

The force of Moira’s pace soon produces a shameful sound. The smacking of where Moira’s hips meet Angela’s backside repetitively is loud and unforgiving. It forces Angela to look around for any overseers, and the door is wide open. She knows no one is at headquarters this late at night, but the indecency of this act, how bad she’s being, rouses a feeling like she’s being watched, judged. But it’s too good, Moira’s fucking her so skillfully and Angela is meeting her thrusts now.

“Yes,” Moira’s breath hitches. “Say it again.”

There’s no time for disobedience, Angela gives in completely. “ _Mein Gott_ , yes, Moira...”

“Mmm, my sweet darling, how much do you detest me?”

“S-so fucking much.” Angela’s breathless, she can barely formulate words anymore, but Moira’s saying this for her benefit, to add to the taboo of it all. To make things hotter, and it’s working.

This hate-fuck exchange was pure bliss, it was so animalistic. Divulging in the darkest of their desires was nothing short of euphoria. Angela was so close now.

“Oh god, oh god,” her words were frantic and high pitched. Angela held back on her release, for the need to make things last overcame her. But it was arduous on her weak body, especially since it was so willing to peak. When Moira rubbed the pad of her thumb against her sensitive clit, Angela came undone.

“Do it,” Moira demanded.

And Angela bursts through the seams, waves of hot release attempt to surface, but instead ooze from below where the strap on was still kept firmly in place. Moira stops moving so Angela can properly clench around the toy. Moira’s only regret was not factoring in a sensory input on the gadget so she’d have been able to feel the pulsating aftershocks.

Moira hears Angela’s breath return to normality and the way she tries to scoot away from the contact. Moira figures it’s uncomfortable now to be filled with no desire left, so she pulls out of her. The toy brings with it a flood of come. It seeps slowly and beautifully, Moira marvels at it one last time. Angela sighs at the loss of heat.

What Moira didn’t put too much thought into was how the moments subsequent to their _interesting_ coitus would pan out. She tugs the strap on back in her trousers, zipped up and out of sight. When she looks back up Angela was just barely conscious flat against the desk, eyes fluttering.

“Falling asleep like that will mutilate your spine and neck,” she informs but was met with no response.

“Okay,” she whispers to herself and straightens Angela’s back to stand up.

She’s supporting her body against her own, and Angela isn’t heavy so it’s simple. She pulls down her skirt for the woman’s own decency. Moira steps on something soft and peers down to see the doctor’s tainted under garment. She shrugs and kicks it beneath the desk without a second thought. She then proceeds to shuffle over to the only couch in the office, she tries to keep Angela at bay without knocking over any unseen obstacles hidden by the absence of light.

She first sits Angela up and places her brasserie back over her soft breasts. She then makes work of her wrinkled top and buttons all the way up to the second to last one. She lays Angela’s head down on a pillow and removes her heels, which she hadn’t noticed until now.

Moira sighs and rolls her neck, a notable cracking noise follows suit. She could have just left Angela like this and went on her merry way. But abandoning the defenseless and vulnerable doctor alone after hours didn’t sit right with her. She did have morals it turns out, they were just selective.

Moira retires on a nearby lounge chair, not risking an early intrusion from one of their coworkers. It would raise suspicion had someone walked in on the two sharing a sleeping space. Moira wouldn’t have cared but she knew Angela would, and she didn’t know why it became so important to make it convenient for the doctor. But she didn’t really question it, she rationalized it was because she was just a good person. A wholesome person with absolutely no feelings for Angela Ziegler, whatsoever.

 _Precisely_ , she thought.

She shuts her eyes and gives into the ache of her spent limbs. Sleep soon overcomes her too.

**Author's Note:**

> German:  
> schiesse - shit  
> mein gott - my god
> 
> Irish Gaelic:  
> mo bhláth - my flower (am hoping google translate was accurate)


End file.
